Detention with Umbridge
by Mirriam Q Webster
Summary: What does a student who gets detention with Umbridge see? Something unusual, that's what. COMPLETE
1. Acknowledgement

Disclaimer: I don't own Snape, Umbridge, the Weasleys, Lee Jordan, or the inestimable Harry Potter. Please realize that I am only borrowing them for a bit of fun. MQW  
  
A/N: Concrit welcome, flames will be given to my pet salamander. She seems to like them.  
  
Warning: Slight OOCness ahead.  
  
Acknowledgement  
  
"I must respect my elders." 998. "I must respect my elders." 999. "I must respect my elders." 1000. "Madame Umbridge, I have completed a thousand lines. May I be excused please?"  
"Let me see your work, dear." She says this in a sugary voice that grates at my nerves, which have already been sensitized by the intense pain concentrated in my right hand. "Yes, I think you can go for the evening," I sigh in relief, "but I am not convinced that you have really internalized your lesson," she croons at me with mock concern. "Come back again tomorrow evening. Eight o'clock. Don't forget, Miss Grey." She looks at me sharply, and I nod my head without meeting her eyes. Let her think my posture is submission, I don't think I can keep the hurt out of my voice, or my eyes, and I won't give her the pleasure of acknowledging the power she wields over me because of the anguish she can cause.  
I walk out of her office trying to recall the look on her face when I told her that a werewolf could teach DADA better than she, and, in fact, did. It really wasn't very wise of me to say it, but she honestly deserved it. I can't believe the way they are teaching that class this year, or rather not teaching it.  
For a brief moment I consider whether a few sessions of writing "I must not be a Dark Lord" with Umbridge wouldn't get rid of Voldemort. Or at the very least get rid of that "special quill." I look down at my hand. It is bleeding a little. With a sigh I pull out my handkerchief and try to tie it one-handed. I am less than successful. Maybe someone in Gryffindor Tower will help me out. Then again, maybe a handkerchief is a little too obvious; I'll just use it to try to stop the bleeding then.  
Walking back, I see Professor Snape. Hastily, I shove my hand in my pocket. He eyes me suspiciously, but apparently decides not to say anything, since he sneers and sweeps past. Absurdly I am disappointed that he didn't stop me. And not only because his hatred of Gryffindors is legendary, unchanging, and therefore comforting. He could do something about Umbridge. He is probably the only one who could and still get away with it now that Dumbledore's gone. Not that he likely would; especially since Umbridge seems to hate Gryffindors almost as much as he does. I wonder how much of that hatred can be blamed on Harry Potter, and how much is due to the impetuous and brash nature that seems to be characteristic of all the inhabitants of the Tower. Werewolf, indeed. Then again, perhaps I am relieved by Professor Snape's refusal to acknowledge my presence. It means I don't have to explain anything, and I doubt that he would appreciate the explanation I have.  
Now, how best to hide my rather unusual, and fairly noticeable, injury from my friends. Hmm, perhaps gloves? Though they might draw more attention than otherwise.  
"Detention with Umbridge?" asks one of the Weasley twins as I climb through the portrait hole. Looking up, I nod.  
"Bitchy witch," the other comments good naturedly, "surprised she hasn't got more of us," he continues. The famous Harry Potter looks up from his chess game with yet another Weasley and grins at me. "Essence of Murtlap can be very soothing after a session with Umbridge." Nodding again I glance at his right hand. It also bears Umbridge's special mark. Hastily I glance back at the twins, then at Lee Jordan, their friend. I feel somehow that I have just been admitted to a secret club. I grin at everyone then turn to walk up the staircase to the girls' dormitories. Perhaps this will be easier than I thought. 


	2. Understanding

Understanding  
  
Once again I find myself in Umbridge's office, carefully writing in my neatest script "I must respect my elders." This time, instead of writing a thousand lines, she has decided I will stay until eleven o'clock. Three hours of pure torture, self-induced pain. And no slacking either. For all she seems totally engrossed in her needlepoint the cruel witch is all too aware of my actions, or lack thereof. I'm not counting, but I think that by 10:30 I have written well over a thousand. I am beginning to weary of the trite, meaningless phrase. Did I say beginning? I loathe it. Finally 11 o'clock arrives. Not a moment too soon, in my opinion. Madame Umbridge lazily puts her needlework away, another of those fluffy, gamboling kittens which seem ubiquitous in this room. Taking her sweet time she picks up the parchment covered in blood, my blood. It sits; dry now, looking like a queer brownish ink. Carefully she puts the sheets in her drawer, then turns to take my hand. At this moment, Professor Snape walks in, though she does not acknowledge him. He glares at me and I wonder what beyond existing I have done to anger him today. Meanwhile, the High Inquisitor of Hogwarts is examining my hand. Her touch is warm and dry, not the cool sliminess that, by all rights, it should be. Then again, I think irrelevantly, too much slime would ruin her embroidery floss. "Yes, dear," she says releasing my hand, "I think you have made great progress tonight." I look up at her sharply, perhaps a little too sharply since she continues, much to my regret, "but I still think one more evening will be necessary for you to really absorb your lesson. Be here tomorrow night at six o'clock." I scowl at the ground, picturing her face in the flagstones and imagining the pleasure I could take from stepping on them. Apparently I have become slightly lost in the contemplation of these happy thoughts, since she says, "You are dismissed, dear," in a slightly huffy tone, as though offended that anyone could ignore her so completely as to daydream in her presence.  
  
Nodding, I head out the door, raising a hand to my mouth to stifle a yawn. The yawn reminds me of what time it is, ad the fact that it is after curfew. I freeze in the doorway, then slowly turn around, "Madame Umbridge," I begin warily, "have I your permission to travel the halls so late?"  
At this moment Snape chooses to remind us all of his presence. "Ha!" he snorts, "a Gryffindor with some consideration for rules! Though you seem to have developed this concern rather late," he sneers, as only he can.  
Actually, I think to myself, in a way, that comment was kind of funny, but after a quick glance at him, I resolutely turn my eyes to the toad that is Dolores Umbridge. She is staring at me and blinking, exactly as though she were a great, slimy amphibian. "After all, Madame," I prompt, "I shouldn't like another detention for breaking curfew." I say this in my best sugary sweet voice, the one I feel sick even thinking about. I also raise my eyebrows and purse my lips slightly in an imitation of polite concern.  
"Professor Snape will accompany you back to your common room," she says at last. "That is, if you don't mind, Severus," she says in a tone that announces clearly that he will not mind in the least if he knows what is good for him.  
"Not at all, Madame Headmistress," he says, with only a hint of ground teeth. "I presume that is why you summoned me?"  
"Why, yes, Severus," she smiles fatuously then bats her eyes at him coquettishly. His nostrils flare slightly, I notice, but he forces himself to smile at her. The sight is grotesque and frankly frightening. He looks sort of like what I imagine a lethifold might after it has successfully slipped out of another victim's house.  
"A pleasant evening to you Madame," he says, giving a shallow, but nonetheless courtly, bow.  
"Perhaps you might like to return to share a cup of tea with me after you have finished escorting Miss Grey?" She looks up at him hopefully and once again bats her eyes in what she probably thinks is a flirtatious manner.  
EEW! I think to myself, carefully keeping my face blank.  
Apparently "Severus" (talk about an appropriate name!) shares my feelings on this subject since he quickly replies "Unfortunately, no, I am afraid duty requires that I patrol the halls this evening."  
This is not what Umbridge wants to hear, and she pouts a little. "But Severus," she whines, "I am quite certain Hogwarts could forgive you if you were slightly remiss in your duties one evening."  
"Nevertheless I could not forgive myself were I to shirk my responsibilities," he hesitates for the barest of moments, and then says, "I hope you will not think less of me for that, Dolores?" He tilts his head slightly to the side and lifts a hand.  
Damn, I think, impressed, Greasy Git of the Dungeons or no, that man can turn on the charm. And she's lapping it up. It was sort of comical, I supposed, but still.  
"Oh, Severus!" she croons, "You know nothing could make me think less of you!" His eyebrows quirk ironically for a moment. Perhaps those rumors of him being a Death Eater are true after all, I muse. But then again, Dumbledore trusts him, and that comment could be taken in a highly uncomplimentary way.  
He bows again and sweeps toward the door. "Miss Grey," he beckons. Quickly I follow him, but not before I see the look of longing on Umbridge's face.  
"You will speak of that to no one," he commands in a tone that brooks no discussion.  
"Of course," I say inclining my head slightly. I wouldn't wish that witch on my worst enemy, I reflected. Well, maybe Voldemort, but then, he really doesn't fall into the same rules of common decency that most of humanity does. Besides, it could be interesting. Sort of like that episode of Celebrity Death Match I saw once on muggle telly.  
I realize suddenly that he is examining me out of the corner of his eye and briefly struggle against making a smart comment. Discretion, however, is definitely the better part of valor when dealing with Professor Snape. "Your hand is bleeding," he says quietly.  
"Damn," I mutter softly under my breath. I had forgotten that while watching that little scene with Umbridge. Hastily I pull my handkerchief out of my pocket and press it to the wound, or wounds, on the back of my right hand. Silently he observes me for a moment then says, "If you remain after class a moment tomorrow morning, I will give you some essence of murtlap." Maybe he is just doing it to get back at Umbridge, but at any rate I am grateful for his gesture.  
I look up in surprise. "Thank you," I say softly. A look I can't decipher is on his face. Anger at something, though I don't think it is me. By this time we have reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, and I give the password and climb through the portrait hole. "Thanks again," I say, turning to look at him. He nods once, then turning in a swirl of robes he walks away. Nodding to myself I allow the portrait to swing closed and walk up to my dormitory. Another day done. 


	3. Respect

Respect  
  
The next evening I am slightly more irritable; not only does my hand hurt worse than ever before, the scheduling of my detention means that I missed most of dinner. In an attempt to keep my mind off things like pumpkin juice, warm rolls, or chocolate desserts, I think back to this morning's close encounter of the Snape kind. While the rest of my class ran out the door as soon as we were dismissed, I gathered my things more slowly then cautiously made my way towards Professor Snape who was standing near his desk watching me.  
"Miss Grey," he sneered.  
"Sir," I replied, trying with all my might not to be nervous. Had he changed his mind since last night, I wondered. Was he going to tell me it was my own fault? I tried to look him in the eye. I was less successful than I would have liked, but more successful than many. He was scrutinizing me very closely; I couldn't help wondering what he was looking for.  
"Come," he said suddenly, startling me. I followed him to what I guessed was his office. Jars full of strange preserved objects were on the shelves. It reminded me of the mad scientist in a muggle movie I had once seen. "Wait here," he ordered as he continued on through another door. I looked around a little more. Some of the objects appeared to be body parts of various creatures. Eew, I thought, less disgusted than I would have expected. I had just turned around to examine the jars behind me more closely when I suddenly heard his voice just behind my shoulder. "Miss Grey," he intoned. I won't disguise the fact that I jumped slightly. "Some essence of murtlap," he said handing me a phial. It was rather larger than I would have thought necessary for one hand, especially since mine are a little on the small side, but I took it anyway.  
"Thank you, Professor Snape," I said. I meant it too. At that moment I felt that none of us gave this man as much credit as he perhaps deserved. I stood there a moment looking at him. Perhaps he wasn't as much a git as we all believed.  
"I will not write a note excusing your tardiness for the next class, Miss Grey." He smirked at my sudden look of panic. Perhaps he was a git after all.  
Why do I allow that man to intimidate me so? I wonder. Am I not a Gryffindor? Is not bravery one of my defining characteristics? Then again, he intimidates just about everyone, Gryffindor or no. And why did Professor Snape give me so much essence of murtlap? Unless he expects me to have more detentions? I hope not. At this moment I would rather be scrubbing out cauldrons for Snape then I would be writing here again. Unless, I think slowly, unless it wasn't all for me. I might not get any more detentions, but someone else in Gryffindor could. Does Professor Snape want me to distribute the essence to others? Is that why there is so much? I can't really ask him about it; I will just have to assume yes.  
At this point I glance up at the clock. It is only seven o'clock. My hand hurts; really, really hurts. I wonder how long I will have to stay here for Umbridge to be happy. Far too long, I am sure. By 7:45 I have tears in my eyes. I can't help it. But I won't say anything. I will not draw her attention to this sign of weakness. Though I can't help wondering if she would let me go after seeing me cry. I am not prepared to giver her that, though. My pride, hubris really, will not allow it. Why else would she have this detention if she didn't like seeing pain? Maybe, I think somewhat feverishly, she wants me to hurt as much as my comment hurt her. A reasonable guess, but I seriously doubt she was hurt this badly.  
At 8:15 Umbridge looks up from her needlepoint.  
"Would you like a cup of tea?" she asks me. I am only too ready to agree to her offer. After all, time drinking tea is time spent not writing. She offers me a delicate china cup full of steaming brew. "Milk and sugar?" She asks.  
"No, thank you," I say shaking my head. I know what plain tea tastes like, and I don't want to give her the chance to add anything to my cup. Not that I know anything she would consider worthwhile, but somewhere in the back of my head I remember Professor Moody, from last year, and his incessant roar, "CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" Indeed, Professor, I think with a smile.  
"Biscuit, dear?" Umbridge offers me a fragile looking plate that matches the cup in my hand. I am very suspicious, but my stomach growls loudly before I can refuse. She smiles falsely at me, "shall I take that as a yes, dear?" she asks innocently. Nothing to do but try to recover now, I nod and say "Please," in my most polite voice.  
We sit in near silence, sipping our tea and nibbling delicately on the hard biscuits. What was there to say? So, do you torture students often? I think not. Still, I sip as slowly as I can. She drinks rather faster. Stall! My head screams at me. Make her slow down! "So," I begin cautiously. "How long have you been doing needlepoint?"  
She looks at me a moment before replying. I try my best to look sincere. "Several years," she says at last.  
"My grandmother used to embroider," I try again. She looks at me some more. I wonder nervously what she is thinking. "It is a very enjoyable pastime," she says.  
"How do you get them to look so lifelike?" I ask, hoping against hope that this second question will do the trick.  
"I use a special spell my mother found," she replies, finally beginning to warm to the subject. "Finish your tea, and I'll tell you about it while you write." I nod, trying outwardly to look excited. Inwardly I am cursing a blue streak. I have no choice, however, but to finish my biscuit, swallow the last of my tea, and reseat myself at the small writing desk. By this time Umbridge is bubbling merrily. I use the sound to try to help block the pain. She goes on and on. Finally she stops. "Oh dear," she exclaims, "ten forty-five already! I had intended to let you go earlier," she smirks. "I suppose I shall just have to call Severus again," she says with a gleam in her eyes that belies the shrug of her shoulders.  
"Severus," she calls after tossing a handful of floo powder into the fire and kneeling.  
"Yes," he says as his head appears in the fireplace. "Ahh, Madame Headmistress. A pleasure to hear from you."  
That is a dangerous game you play, Professor, I think to myself.  
"I wonder if you would mind escorting Miss Grey again this evening?"  
"Certainly, Madame," he says. "I shall arrive momentarily."  
"Just come through the floo, Severus, it'll be alright this once."  
"Thank you," he says inclining his head towards her. A moment later he has stepped through and stands before us.  
"Tea, Severus?" she asks sweetly.  
"No, thank you. I was brewing a potion when you called; I have only enough time to return Miss Grey to Gryffindor."  
"Ah, I see." She doesn't bother to hider her disappointment.  
"My apologies, Dolores," he murmurs looking at her.  
"Ah, Severus," she sighs. They both stand there looking at each other and I stand a little off to the side watching them both. For a moment, I stand there considering the tableau we must make to an outside observer, with the fire in the background, just visible between the tall, rail like and short, squat bodies. It is both homey and disturbing. Then, as the silence between them begins to stretch to what must be an uncomfortable length, I decide to take action. Thus I very deliberately sneeze. It's a rather odd talent, I admit, being able to sneeze on demand, but I think it's at least as useful as crying is. In any event, it has the desired effect; the unlikely couple turned to me. "Excuse me," I say in what I hope is a contrite voice.  
"Come, Miss Grey," Snape says, snapping out of his reverie.  
"Yes, sir," I say, turning to follow him as he heads out the door. At the last moment, however I hesitate. Madame Umbridge hadn't mentioned whether I had any further detentions. I decide to keep walking in the hopes that I will get off this time. After we have turned a corner away from Umbridge's office I slow down a bit to look at my hand. It is worse than ever before, and as I see it, all the pain that I had blocked out listening to Umbridge returns to me. I give a little gasp and nearly fall over as tears spring to my eyes.  
This catches the Professor's attention and he turns to look at me. "Let me see your hand," he says. I am surprised, but hold my hand out for his inspection. With a sigh he takes my handkerchief and ties it tightly around the offending body part. "Soak that tonight," he scowls. "Hurry along; I wasn't lying when I said I was brewing a potion."  
"Nope, just when you were emphasizing how time sensitive that potion was." Did I just say that?! To Professor Snape?! What was I thinking?! Did the pain dull my thinking that much? Didn't I know better than to be smart to professors? Hadn't I learned anything from Umbridge?  
"I should think," Snape says silkily "that you would have more respect for your elders. However if you really want another detention." he trails off looking at me.  
"No, thank you," I cut in quickly, darting a glance at his face. He looks as threatening as ever, but, did I just see something, a spark of amusement, perhaps?  
Finally we make it to Gryffindor Tower and the Fat Lady's portrait. "Thank you, sir," I say just before I mutter the password and climb in through the portrait hole.  
"You're welcome," comes the response, just as I am leaving. Did I really hear that? By the time I have turned back Professor Snape has swept off. Probably it was my imagination, but still.Ah, who knows. I go to soak my hand before going to bed.  
  
A/N: Thank You's to everyone who reads this and, dare I hope, reviews. It's sort of an unusual story and perspective, not what I usually write, but I thought a little variety might be good. I also want to mention that I highly doubt the romantic tension between Snape and Umbridge ever could happen, especially since in Cannon they appear to detest each other. In this story Snape still hates Dolores, but she has decided that he is attractive. I also felt that since Snape doesn't like Dolores he just might feel the tiniest spark of sympathy for anyone who caused her misery, but only the tiniest spark, this is still Snape and the protagonist is, after all, a Gryffindor, even if she is a bit irreverent and sarcastic. At any rate, I hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I liked writing it.  
  
Miriam Q. Webster 


End file.
